


Satisfaction Guaranteed

by corviid



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Demon Deals, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:50:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviid/pseuds/corviid
Summary: Broke, miserable, and betting it all on one last game of cards, Husk is in no position to turn down Alastor's impromptu assistance.Besides, the Radio Demon sure knows how to sweeten a deal.
Relationships: Alastor/Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 95





	Satisfaction Guaranteed

**Author's Note:**

> I've been indulging in some Alastor/Husk fics lately, so it's only fair I contribute! I wish I could take credit for the title, but my partner is just too good with puns.
> 
> A big shout out to Jadeile! Their fic [Shit, the Radio Demon is a part of my afterlife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21694939/chapters/51744391) is an absolute treasure, and really inspired me to try my hand at writing these two.
> 
> To clarify, this is not replacing Technical Difficulties! I'll be updating both intermittently.
> 
> Oh! Recommended music for this chapter: [Wolfgang Lohr & Balduin feat. Zouzoulectric - Imperfection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtVXfonkAMo)!
> 
> Enjoy! ♥  
> cor.

Time was meandering.

It was a difficult concept to pin down, that archaic thing — always moving, always _willing_ movement. Movement begets change, and change itself eternally ached for _more time_ to truly unfold. It was purely cyclical. _Time_ allowed for unending suffering, for a deathless existence devoid of meaning, for erasure to seem a welcomed end. And for some cynical sinners, the hands of time were little more than the appendages of God himself. 

God — or Lucifer.

“My, my, what a _fickle_ thing.” The words hummed with static interference. The Radio Demon’s grin stretched the width of his face, each individual tooth a gemstone in the exquisite crown that was his smile. He cocked his head in amusement, his scarlet eyes trained on the slow, methodical ticking of the handsome pocket watch resting in his gloved hand. Its construction was nothing short of impressive: each roman numeral seemed painstakingly handwritten, and though its brass and copper clock face was decidedly durable, Alastor returned it to his interior jacket pocket with the utmost care.

The evening sky sat low on the horizon, its burgundy hue heavy with cloud cover. Warm, humid air churned through the overcrowded back streets with blistering intent, every pending hour an open invitation for an equally suffocating night. It was oppressive, in a sense; the pooling heat pushed even the most resilient sinner to seek refuge beyond the muggy stickiness of the midnight sun. But as the Radio Demon set his sights upon the flickering neon lights of the nearest casino club — gaze narrowed, teeth gleaming, hands clasped ever-so-politely at the small of his back — the evening temperatures seemed of little consequence.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” Alastor drawled, his easy stride echoing his casual tone as he addressed the entrance bouncers. Neon lights flashed at near epileptic intervals, intertwining with the beat of the music that was flooding freely from the entryway. The exact sound was decidedly beyond his era, but the tempo was infectious: fast-paced and airy, with a hint of brass that pulled him back to his youth. Alastor tilted his head, allowing his foot to tap along. “But you’ll excuse me if I’m not on the guest list.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation — not that either dared to intercept him. _The Immortal Coil_ was one of the more upscale establishments this side of Hell, catering only to the wealthy and the powerful. It doubled as both a club and a casino, and though small-time sinners weren’t allowed on the premises of their own volition, they tended to be used as collateral during high-stakes bets. For some, it was a haven of depravity; for others, a veritable blackmarket of would-be slaves and servants. For Alastor, it was strictly entertaining. No, despite his theatrics, it was _quite possible_ that his name _had_ been on the guest list — not that he cared for an invitation. It was more fun to arrive unannounced and uninvited.

The beat of the music vibrated in the air around him, the sound degrading into fragmented static as he moved through it. Chimes and jingles and mechanical _whirs_ only further fed his musical gluttony, every slot machine adding its own improvised chorus to the cacophony of sound. It was intoxicating, and though he cared little for any of the carnal pleasures of _The Immortal Coil,_ the sensory extravagance was more than enough to draw him in. Lights, sounds, music, laughter — it was everything a performer craved, and Alastor carried himself with all of his usual charismatic confidence as he weaved from table to table. His presence was only occasionally acknowledged; the majority of the patrons had their eyes on their own objectives, their own prizes. In a sense, they were hunting — just as he was.

But there could be only one apex predator, and as luck would have it, he was easily the most powerful demon present. Not that it especially _mattered;_ he was voracious for a little fun anyway. The club was a chess board littered with pawns and rooks, knights and bishops — and though the game lacked a queen or king piece, he was content to bend the rules to his own amusement. No, unless another overlord decided to infringe on the territory, _all_ the pieces were his to toy with.

The sound around him bubbled and cracked with palpable static, the fractured rhythm only feeding his smile. His legs were moving in time with the music; it was intoxicating, _had always_ been intoxicating. Sound was _his_ medium — it was the very lifeblood of his poor, damned soul. And while other overlords craved a more debauched scene, Alastor preferred to soak in the grief of gamblers willing to bet their very afterlives for ten seconds of dopamine. No matter the wager, luck and misfortune were forever entwined; failure waited just beyond the veil of pleasure, maw wide and hungry, teeth glinting in the low light. And it was _utterly delicious._

The Radio Demon breathed a contented sigh as he retrieved the pocket watch from inside his suit jacket. Half past midnight — not that the hour much _meant_ anything. Night was coming and going, losing its limelight like any other one-trick starlet, its decline as inevitable as morning’s breach. It was a constant fight for attention between night and day, Heaven and Hell; neither could truly _rise to the top_ without pushing the other to the bottom of the rung. It was purely cyclical.

Alastor clicked his tongue, snapping the device shut with a satisfying _click_ as he returned it to its rightful home. It was time. He had waited long enough.

A beckoning gesture summoned forth his staff, and he twirled it leisurely as he ascended the steps to the stage. He cleared his throat, tapping a sharp finger against his microphone. The band immediately stopped playing.

A shame; their sound wasn’t as vintage as he would have liked, but it had been utterly addictive all the same. Too bad.

“Good evening, _good evening!”_ Alastor gestured wildly with his free hand, his picturesque smile hinging on crazed. His voice hummed with feedback, the static raw and hungry. Half-lidded, crimson eyes raked over the faces of the crowd methodically, basking in their terror. “I trust everyone is having a _truly wonderful_ time! I hate to intrude, but I simply _couldn’t resist_ joining in on the festivities.”

He laughed, playing a sample of applause. The crowd was silent — frozen with fear, judging by their horrified expressions. Overhead, the lights continued to strobe violently, exaggerated shadows thrown in every direction. One such shadow stretched behind the Radio Demon himself, its twisted, jagged form clutching at its master’s heels with wanting claws.

“For those uninformed few, my name is Alastor, and _I’ll be your host for the rest of the evening.”_

There was a beat of silence, followed almost immediately by panicked shrieking. Alastor chuckled to himself as he shook his head; he half-turned to the band, twirling his microphone as he shrugged nonchalantly. Oh, those _poor_ fools. He supposed he should have anticipated their raw, guttural panic, but — no, there was no denying that he knew exactly which nerves he was pinching with his little stunt. Oh, well. He could work with this.

Alastor snapped his fingers, and the band was immediately replaced by his usual shadow puppets. Regular demons had the awful inclination to freeze up in his presence, and that simply wouldn’t do. No, he required a full musical entourage for his performances — _deserved_ one, even. Alastor tapped his foot to the beat, his grin cannibalizing the rest of his facial features as it spread ever wider. _Even he_ couldn’t fully know what the night held in its few fleeting hours of fame, and the very idea bordered on sensual.

“Now, now! There’s no need for panic!” He cast a hand across his forehead dramatically. “I haven’t even _done_ anything yet, after all!”

And to Alastor’s credit, beyond making himself known and summoning forth his musical entourage, he _hadn’t_ done anything. Murder was obvious — fervant and euphoric, of course, but obvious all the same. Now, that wasn’t to say he hadn’t planned on _later_ slaughtering his audience, but he had at least hoped to raise the stakes a little _first._ But they were all screams and panic, now. How _inconsiderate._

He cocked his head as he scanned the crowd, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Despite the immediate chaos, there _was_ still one game proceeding as usual. The table stood dead center amidst the confusion, all five chairs occupied by demons of varying stature — some accompanied by extra muscle, and one in particular down to his last chips. Alastor’s smile all but crawled across his lips. His fingers tensed, the leather of his gloves crackling pointedly as his claws found purchase. He could feel his shadow silently laughing at his feet, its horrible, terribly exaggerated smile mimicking his own unhinged expression. _Oh,_ now _this_ would be _entertaining._

The Radio Demon snapped his fingers, rematerializing just shy of the poker table. He cocked an eyebrow; even a non-gambler could summarize the situation from the body language alone. Bets were high — too high. He folded his hands behind his back, honey-sweet pleasantries all but dripping from his tongue.

 _“My word,_ gentlemen! What a match! The ante’s high, but, _oh!_ It seems not all of us have the luxury of betting _wealth.”_ He hummed knowingly, savoring the bittersweetness of his own words. No, while chips of every color flooded the tabletop, one demon had been forced to raise with a single deep red feather torn from his own wingtip. The pot was clear: a life debt, a sinner’s soul.

Alastor felt his mouth go dry. His smile curled tighter at the corners, his eyes trained on the demon in question. Deep brown fur, striped ears, and crimson wings tipped in spades, clubs, diamonds, hearts — a gambler by nature, judging by his form.

“How unfortunat—”

“Yeah, how ‘bout you shut yer _fuckin’ mouth, Red?”_ His tone was more of a grunt, his face buried somewhere between his cards and his cheap drink.

Husk, hammered or otherwise, lacked any sense of self-preservation. His body ached, his brain pounded alongside the obnoxious party lights and his own over-indulgence, and his hand was _absolute shit._ The kind of shit that was about to land him in a lifetime of debt. He flicked his feathered tail in obvious annoyance, and for a moment, his tone petered out defeatedly. “Table’s full. Don’t need nobody narrating this loss.”

The table fell silent. All eyes were on the sinner in question, and then — as deeply unsettling static rose above the screams of the chaos — the Radio Demon himself.

But Alastor threw his head back and _laughed,_ the sound of it even more disturbing than his usual frequency interference. He planted his hands on the demon’s shoulders, his smile nothing but teeth as he leaned close to his ear. The breath tickled hot and heavy against Husk’s fur, and he winced.

 _“Well, aren’t you entertaining.”_ Alastor pointedly reached around, adjusting the other’s disheveled bowtie to proper perfection. The booze steadied his nerves, but Husk trembled a touch all the same as killing claws lingered just above his chest, their points glinting beneath the club lights.

“...Not that… Y’know, we _care_ if you kill ‘im, but, uh…” Alastor’s head whipped up and towards the source of the voice, his head tilting slowly. A wolf demon, if his canine features were any indication. The sinner shrugged, feigning a nonchalance so fractured in its performance that Alastor felt himself snickering. “He kinda owes us, so we’d really _like_ to collect on that, Al.”

A beat of silence. Alastor’s grin stretched ever wider, his pupils constricting as he glanced over Husk’s hand. The Radio Demon was by no means a gambler himself; however, even he could tell a winning hand from a clearly losing one, and the odds weren’t looking good. Husk made every effort to shrug him off, his nose wrinkled, the bags beneath his eyes exaggerated and heavy.

“My, my.” He flashed his teeth pointedly, delicately retrieving Husk’s feather from amidst the piles of chips and dollar bills. Alastor turned it over, admiring the pattern-work, the sheen, the gradient — before finally lowering his gaze on the demon across the table. “I’m afraid his cards aren’t looking good.”

Husk immediately bristled, knocking his chair back as he tore up from the table. “Why would yo—”

 _“However.”_ A record scratch echoed throughout the building, and even Alastor’s band stopped playing to look in his direction. The Radio Demon half-turned on his heel, his weight shifting to one hip as he stretched a hand in Husk’s direction. His smile was calculated, his eyes predatory; there was something hiding there, some premonition fueled only by his own self-satisfaction.

“I like you. Why don’t we make a deal? Unless you’d rather play slave for the rest of all eternity.” Alastor jerked his head, gesturing to the wolf demon across the table — who, despite the constraints of his face, seemed particularly distraught by the sudden turn of events.

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he drawled, his voice edged with static interference. The building was relatively empty now, the majority of the crowd having fled through some exit or another. Oh well. There were more interesting events unfolding, events more worthy of his attention.

His hand glowed neon green in the low light. Alastor cocked his head in Husk’s direction, his smile easy and nonchalant as he spoke. “All I ask for is your _participation_ regarding certain interests of mine. In exchange, I can provide you _anything you desire.”_

The Radio Demon swept his free hand from behind his back in a demonstration of sheer showmanship, fanning out a hand of his own cards. He turned them around slowly to reveal the faces: a royal flush — no, a full house — no, four of a kind, and back to a royal flush again. He chuckled darkly as he paused to admire the suits, every card face designed in his own likeness, of course.

“The constraints are very simple.” Alastor tucked the cards inside his suit jacket, opting instead to remove his pocket watch. He clicked it open pointedly, eyes level with Husk’s as he spoke, the faint _tick, tock, tick_ of the watch hands enunciating the timeliness of his decision. “We are bound for as long as you are _satisfied with the agreement,_ and not a moment more.”

Husk looked down at his own cards. His frown was deeper than usual; its sheer presence aged him beyond his usual gruffness, threatening to send him to a second grave. He could stutter through weighing his options, but they both knew he had already come to a decision. The choice was as plain as it was stupid — but the alternative was _even dumber,_ with less of the perks.

He shrugged. There was nothing left to lose. Husk fixed Alastor with a distrustful squint as he raised his paw and shook hands with the Radio Demon. The air around them cooled considerably, the green light pooling forth from their newly-formed contract, before dispersing entirely.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Alastor drawled, his eyes half-lidded, his smile almost reserved as he laid his gaze upon the rest of the table. Static bubbled forth from the ether, his eyes hollowing out to radio dials as he licked his lips in anticipation. “It’s a shame the rest of you won’t have the satisfaction of doing so. _Oh well. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”_

Midnight ticked over to early morning, its passage marked only by the guttural screams emanating from _The Immortal Coil._ Bones cracked and shattered beneath his precise hands, tendons snapping, warm flesh squelching between knife-pointed teeth, his showmanship only upstaged by his own sinful gluttony. Husk sat crouched beneath the poker table with his hands over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut against the sobbing, the _awful sobbing,_ as he struggled to count his breaths. Blood dripped softly from the edge of the table, its green felted cover stained entirely red.

And when Alastor had finally eaten his fill — and he did, eventually, grow tired and content — he was kind enough to tidy himself up before extending a debonair hand down to Husk.

His smile was absolutely venomous as he helped him to his feet.


End file.
